


The Ninth Black Rider

by brokibrodinson



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), Middle-earth: Shadow of War (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Canon Temporary Character Death, M/M, Nazgûl | Ringwraiths, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/pseuds/brokibrodinson
Summary: Worn down by the decades of ceaseless fighting, Talion finally surrenders himself to the powers of darkness.Inspired by the 'true' ending of Shadow of War.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Talion (Shadow of Mordor), Talion/Witch-king of Angmar
Comments: 2
Kudos: 85





	The Ninth Black Rider

**Author's Note:**

> Now when I say Celembrimbor made me scream at the TV during THAT SCENE, I need you to know I am not exaggerating.   
> I was seriously not expecting to be as emotionally invested in Talion and Celebrimbor's story as I have become, and while I am still FURIOUS with Celebrimbor, I needed to write some kind of further exploration and resolution for my own sake.
> 
> Not sure if anyone else is still reading fic for this fandom but I thought I'd upload anyway! 
> 
> PS. I haven't played the DLC storylines yet, I need to emotionally recover first. If I've missed any important events from those stories, that's why!

When Talion finally fell, it was with relief. For years he had fought back the tide of Darkness, decades spent holding the line without any hope of seeing an end.

A perpetual stalemate.

And with every year that passed, Isildur’s Ring drove its seductive tendrils further.

He cared little what happened to him now. Celebrimbor was gone, his essence absorbed into Sauron and locked in a never-ending power struggle for domination.

At witnessing this through the fiery gaze of the Palantir (and wouldn’t Celebrimbor be _seething_ to know that only now had Talion managed to obtain it) Talion had first felt a bitter sense of triumph at the wraith’s defeat, then anger and frustration at the knowledge that all this could have been avoided. If only they hadn’t forged that damned New Ring! If only Celebrimbor had listened to him.

If only...

He missed him now, he could admit that to himself. Mordor was a harsh and unforgiving place, and even with his new powers, Talion could still fall. And he did, often, to rogue orc captains that tracked him, ambushed him, betrayed him.

(He felt nothing at being betrayed by his orcs now. Everyone else had, why shouldn’t they?)

When Talion returned, banished for hundredth time from death, he still expected Celebrimbor’s voice in his ear, telling him what to do better next time, telling him to dust himself off and _keep going_.

No one told him to keep fighting now. Even Ratbag was long gone.

He had only himself.

At last, stuck upon the brutal pike of an Uruk defender and sluggishly bleeding out, he gazed up at the blood red sky and made his choice.

He fell.

When Talion returned this time, he found himself at the top of Minas Morgul, gazing down at the conquered Gondorian city below.

Here he waited.

One by one, seven Wraiths materialised behind him, the Witch-king himself soon after.

Talion felt the weight of his gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and made no attempt to shrug it off as he turned and looked upon the shadowed face of his new master.

“It is over,” the Witch-king told him, and a note in his cursed voice was almost gentle. Beneath his grip, Talion nearly buckled with relief at hearing those three small words.

“I am yours,” he said, and the Darkness took him.

In the years that followed, Talion’s mind swore loyalty to the Witch-king, and to Sauron, the Dark Lord himself. In his heart however, a tiny fragment of hopeful humanity remained. The One Ring _could_ be destroyed, he was certain. Just not by him. And not Eltariel or Celebrimbor either.

A different hero, though one he could not yet see.

And when that day came, he would be free.

Until then, however, he was in every way the newest Ringwraith. With his newly granted powers he continued to bring orcs to heel, and those he could not were brought forth as revenants. Their numbers surged, his power grew. They had built an army.

And the Eye of Sauron was fixed squarely on Middle-Earth.

The first time the Witch-king summoned him, he obeyed with some irritation. He’d been in the middle of training orcs in the fight pits, and without him there could be no discipline.

Still, he appeared at the Witch-king’s side readily enough, and bowed his head in respectful servitude.

“My Brother,” the Lord of the Nazgûl greeted him, sibilant voice echoing among the black halls of his fortress. “You joined us in defeat, and your pledge of loyalty is incomplete. I see your heart, Gravewalker,” he continued, the gleaming metal of his polished gauntlet reaching out to grip the back of Talion’s neck, his words and his touch sending shivers of dread down his spine. “You fight for us, but you do not wish us to triumph. I would rid you of this struggle.”

Talion looked up cautiously, his mask of darkness melting away to reveal his face that still resembled a Man but for the ever-deepening signs of corruption. “Of what do you speak, Brother?” he asked, his voice almost still his own.

If he didn’t know better, he almost would have thought the Witch-king _sighed_.

“ _Talion_ ,” the Nazgûl reproached him softly, “how well you conceal yourself. Must I show you your own doubts, your own fears?”

His fingers tightened on Talion’s neck until he could feel the cold points of his gauntlet digging into his uncovered skin. He kept this grip until the very edge of pain and then released him, his gauntlet instead sliding along the vulnerable skin of his throat and jaw in a lazy caress.

Talion’s hellfire-coloured eyes widened at the touch, though he did not resist as his master’s other hand joined the first until they were gently gripping his face between their palms.

“ _Submit_ ,” the Witch-king purred in an unmistakeable echo of the spell he and Celebrimbor had once put upon the orcs of Mordor together. As the Nazgûl’s tendrils tore into his mind, Talion wondered if he too was now to be branded, as surely as he was dominated.

The Witch-king didn’t sift through his mind so much as tear through it, claws ripping through his thoughts until they found their quarry.

There, in his heart of hearts, lay that molten core, that tiny glimmering gem of patient hope. A hope that this would one day all be over, that one day he would finally be welcomed into death’s embrace and at last be free to rest.

“You long for death,” the Witch-king commented in his mind, holding the tiny glow between two curious fingers. “Yet it still eludes you. You are _not_ free, Talion Gravewalker. You are _ours_. And you will come to know it beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

The claws inside his mind tightened, crushing the hopeful core between finger and thumb.

“No!” he cried out in his mind, watching helplessly as the gem was ground into fine glittering powder, its glow growing dull as it was scattered into the dark corners of his mind.

“There,” the Witch-king said smugly into his mind. “Now there is nothing left holding you back from your destiny, my Brother.”

With that, he receded, releasing Talion’s face with a parting stroke upon his cheek.

Talion doubled over as he returned to his senses, panting harshly despite having no need of breath.

Ignoring the Witch-king for the moment, he took stock of himself, trying to sense what had changed within him.

To his relief, he could tell of no difference. His loyalty to the dark forces was unwavering. He had no wish for anything to change. To be a Nazgûl was to be part of a great force, one that would succeed. He knew this and in his heart he was content.

“Good,” the Witch-king praised him as Talion straightened to look at him again. “You know your place, Brother, and it is by my side. See me,” he ordered, reaching out to take Talion’s chin between two icy fingers and raising his head.

His form flickered then, and his distinctive crown of steel faded until Talion realised with a jolt he was looking upon the true face of his Lord.

He had not been a Man since before the Second Age, and time and corruption had warped his features irrevocably. Yet, to Talion, he was not unlovely.

His face was pale, wraithlike, eyes glowing with the same unnatural light as Talion’s. Below them were high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and sly, smirking lips. His hair, long leached of colour, fell finely around him, making his overall visage reminiscent of Sauron’s Fair Form.

Entranced, Talion could only stare as he felt a cold finger trace the shape of his lower lip, sending a shiver of anticipation through his corrupted blood.

“You will serve well,” the Witch-king decided, tone threaded with amusement. “Forsake your name, Brother. You are no more and no less than the Ninth of the Nazgûl. You are one of us, and it is us who shall keep you.”

In enraptured obedience did the Ninth incline his head, welcoming his master’s words as they drove the nail of corruption further.

He was _theirs_ , as surely as they were his, and he would fight by their side until the end.

The Witch-king touched him then, starting with his face and continuing along the rest of his skin, possessing his body as thoroughly as he had his mind until the Ninth was certain he was to be branded all over, his master’s marks scarred deeply into his flesh.

Up against the smooth black walls of Minas Morgul, the Witch-king did take him, holding him with one strong hand around his throat despite the Ninth having no desire to escape. He moved within him with savage satisfaction, until the Ninth could feel his body being willingly overwhelmed by the fell power that now owned him.

Several times the Ninth did cry out, and strangely he thought it was a name he should be uttering, whimpering, whispering. A lover? He had no need of them now. Annoyed by his confused distraction, he shoved the thoughts away, refocusing on the perverse pleasures granted by his lord and master.

The Dark Lord himself came to watch them once, his imposing black armour disappearing to reveal the fair face of the Maia. He said nothing, but his countenance radiated gleeful triumph, and the Ninth felt proud for pleasing his creator.

When the One Ring was found, all nine Nazgûl rode out upon black steeds, the Ninth’s blackened heart singing with savage fellowship as they closed in on their prey.

The Man who had been called Talion was truly lost to darkness as the War of the Ring began.

Suddenly, it was over.

The One Ring was destroyed, melting into nothing within the furnace of Mount Doom.

The Nazgûl felt this and despaired as one by one they were banished from undeath, their tethers finally cut, Rings shattering upon corrupted fingers.

Opening his eyes to gentle sunlight, Talion remembered.

Those last remaining speckles of hope that the Witch-king had carelessly overlooked in his mind all at once lit up with the fierce glow of love and vitality.

Shedding his weapons and vestments of war, he began to walk, mind fixed unerringly on one name.

_Celebrimbor_.

Whether reconciliation or revenge, he knew not which he desired, only that he had to see his Wraith, his companion, his other half.

Only, Wraith he was no more. Restored to his true Elven form, he found Celebrimbor waiting for him upon one of the fine white towers of Mithlond.

There was a long, heavy pause as the two stared at each other, taking in the faces they each knew better than their own.

Then finally Talion spoke.

“I should punch you,” were his first words in over a hundred years.

Celebrimbor closed his bright eyes for a moment, face downcast. “I would not blame you,” he replied.

Hearing that familiar deep voice again, Talion felt tears begin to fall silently from his eyes, and he brushed them away absently, oblivious to the pain in the Elf’s gaze as he saw them.

In three swift strides, he had closed the distance between them and was crushing Celebrimbor into a fierce hug. “By Eru, I’ve missed you,” he confessed, holding onto him as though fearful he would disappear.

Slowly, hesitantly, Celebrimbor returned his embrace, tears spilling down his own ageless cheeks.

“I was wrong, Talion,” he rasped, breath warm with life against the Man’s ear. “Domination was not the right path. The New Ring was not without its own flaws. And you are so much more than just a vessel.”

Relieved, the last remaining wounds in Talion’s heart began to pull together. They still hurt, not yet quite fixed, but they were mending.

He released Celembrimbor, holding him at arms’ length so that he could look at him.

“I forgive you,” he said simply, joyously, and laughed at the lightening of his heart as he said it. He took Celebrimbor’s beloved face between his hands and looked deep into his eyes as he repeated the words, wanting to see the understanding there as he said it.

When he kissed him, a whirlwind of mixed emotions tore through him; relief that they had found each other again, whole and safe; bittersweet love and devotion for the smith for whom he had relinquished the New Ring only to be cast aside in turn; and below that a slow building hunger for the stern and elegant Elf he could finally see and touch and feel.

Again Celebrimbor hesitated, but caught up swiftly enough, surging into Talion’s mouth with the same overwhelming passion Talion himself felt.

They stood there with each other for what seemed like hours, and yet it was still not enough; for too long they had been apart and now they had all the time in the world.

Finally, Celebrimbor’s sharp eyes spied sails on the horizon.

Their ship had arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> PPS. We can suspend disbelief enough to pretend the Nazgûl are hot, can't we? Corrupted Talion was a fucking LOOK.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
